Odd, isn't it?
by ohmygodwritersblock
Summary: Instead of leaving a note, Sherlock leaves letters. A series of suicide letters that Sherlock writes to John up to the point of his death. Leaving John a mystery that unravels further with each day.
1. Chapter 1

_John,_

_We've come so far, and you are so very much, that the words in my head won't form. We're at the end of us and there doesn't seem anything left to say._

_Odd, isn't it._

_So that's why I'm starting here, before my words run completely dry, before my jaw hangs open, slack. I know that sometimes the barbs of my words stab too deep. When my lips are pale and bloodless, perhaps you will no longer bleed._

_I'm getting rather poetic, aren't I. Mycroft always said I had a flair for the dramatic. I rather think that he will appreciate my method of departure._

_You are in the kitchen now, getting the mugs from the cabinets, setting them on the counter. Such a creature of habit, John. Sometimes I envy you. Your own mind does not constantly race you, make demands of you._

_I am in my room, cross legged, back against the my bed. I pushed it against the wall so as to have more of an area to pace at some point, a particularly challenging case most likely. I will miss those. And you, John. I will miss you for the time I have left._

_I am writing these by hand because I feel that you will appreciate the gesture. I know that you feel that the written word is a more meaningful way of communication. I understand the thought process behind this, though I do not agree with this common notion. It is the words that belong to the person. That is why I leave you with my words, John. Not to comfort myself, for beyond life what is there, but Nothing? No, these words, are for you. When I am gone, I know that you will grieve. I do not state this out of a need of my own for you to remember me or mourn me. I write this to in an attempt at comfort. Sometimes I surprise even myself, I do not usually offer comfort. You as usual, are the exception. You are always the exception John._

_No, I know you will grieve, but I assure you, there is no need. When I am dead, I am also gone. There is a woman who lives at the address that I have enclosed inside this letter. Her name is Mary Morstan and she meets your needs for a romantic partner exactly. Contact her when you feel that your sufficient mourning period is over, she will be good for you. I met her during a case that I neglected to inform you of, as you were visiting your sister (the third time she was 'sober'). I regret that I did not introduce you to Miss Morstan sooner, it would have eased our separation. It is a character flaw that I have developed since meeting you, that I despise the thought of sharing you with anyone else. I have been selfish, John. I ask you to forgive me._

_I can hear you making your way to my door now, you stopped by the couch to ensure that the tea did not spill over the rim of the cup. Do not blame yourself for overlooking the obvious John, one cannot prevent the inevitable. And my death, I'm afraid, is inevitable._

_A knock. Here you are John._

_SH_


	2. Chapter 2

**I have been trying and trying to write a oneshot for a series idea that will be entitled ****_John Makes Tea _****and I even wrote out a plan, that's how much difficulty I was having. It wasn't working, but I'll try my best. **

**Anyway, so to try and get my moop under control, I took a look through my folders and found this chapter that I wrote ages ago and never posted, I was going to add some stuff on and never got around to it. This story was in my ****_Things To Eventually Get To _****folder. Whoops. Sorry. **

**Here you go.**

* * *

John,

I know that my mention of Mary, so early on in these letters, so early after my death, was far too hasty. I fear now that you may have done something horrific to that poor slip of paper (however futile and foolish it is to 'shoot the messenger' so they say) if you have damaged it beyond repair, I am going to enclose the same details in the second to last letter. I know you won't read these out of order, you're far too good for that, John.

I am told that often when one mourns, one remembers with fondness the seemingly meaningless things. Mycroft is an utter ponce, but even he can come in useful sometimes (yes, Mycroft knows, this is something we have come to an agreement about. I will detail you about this at a later date. Whatever you do, don't call Mycroft until I explain). It seems odd you would remember these things with fondness. No matter, I shall rise to expectations.

I've been thinking all day, wearing my dressing gown, I haven't changed out of it yet. Doubt I will. You seem to think that I am sulking and have taking to addressing me as 'Your Imperial Highness'. I have deemed this as sarcasm, though I am unsure as to what you are trying to achieve.

I asked you to get milk. It only occurs to me now that the fact that I have not been the subject of verbal abuse recently, must mean that you are out. (A joke, John. Never think that you are the reason for what I am doing. Never. You are the only thing keeping me tethered, at this moment.)

BORED. BORED. BOREDBOREDBOREDboredboredBORED. Lestrade has no cases. You're at the surgery. Why do you work when you could be running around London with me? I know you prefer it. (Really, we should have split Mycroft's original bribe for spying on me.) In your absence, I memorised the placement of all the known stars and read all seven books in the Harry Potter series. It doesn't matter what I place on my hard drive anymore.

You've arrived home, fifteen minutes of time allowed for a quick trip to the grocery store nearest to your workplace. You threw out the toenail experiment I've been working on. I had just managed to control all of the variables. If I begin again first thing tomorrow, I may have time to finish.

We watched crap telly for an indeterminate amount of time. Far too long. But you were happy.

Your sweater was incredibly warm and you smelled of soap and soft wool. It seems that these scents instill a sense of comfort in me. You are an incredible source of comfort.

I do not always enjoy physical contact with others. You, as always, are the exception.

You are going up to bed now. You made me tea and left it on the table in front of me. Must remember to drink it.

SH

P.S. Thank you for the tea, you always complain that I forget to drink it sometimes, but I must argue that it is not wholly unpleasant when cold.

* * *

**And there you have it. Nothing spectacular, but I needed to get something posted.**

**KEEP AN EYE OUT FOR MORE UPDATES ON OTHER STORIES BECAUSE I HAVE TWO WEEKS OF HALF TERM! *WOOP* *WOOP***


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